Wednesday, December 16, 2009

People say friends don't destroy one another, what do they know about friends?

It's all pockets.Yours, ripped clean throughFrom a night when we were happyAnd I followed you home on your motorcycleYou laid the bike down-- showing offCircling a monument to a dead villain war heroThe pocket, the only casualty.My heart lodged between my teeth for an hour afterwardThat was when I realized just how much I cared. I didn't tell you.You wear the pants every day stillA monument to the idea of charmed existence, to lady luck.

And my pocket, nowWhere I put these things away:An owl feather, the damaged lone ranger postcard, the idea of a letter never sent, Oregon, toy tigers, the good and bad stomach aches, silk flowers and bolo ties, Bonnie and Clyde...

And so I slip my foot into another pocketThe one on the dash of my timebomb of a carKnee above shoulderAnd I blow out my speakers and my vocal chordsAnd I sing.